Page 103 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"His Grace always asks, Your Grace."
"Then tell him the truth...that I've gone to the village on a matter of conscience. But perhaps you could wait to tell him that until after I've actually left?"
James shifted uncomfortably. "Your Grace, I couldn't lie to His Grace."
"I'm not asking you to lie. I'm asking you to delay the truth slightly. There's a difference."
Before he could parse the dubious morality of that statement, another footman appeared, looking flustered. "Your Grace, there's another letter from Mr. Granger. He says it's most urgent."
Ophelia tore open the letter, her heart sinking as she read:
Your Grace, I write with the gravest concern. Young Lucy Wheeler has taken a severe turn in the night. The fever has risen dangerously, and I fear without immediate intervention and proper medicine, which her family cannot afford, we may lose her before the day is out. I know His Grace has made his position clear on the matter of the Wheelers' tenancy, but I appeal to your compassion—surely the life of a child matters more than rental arrears. I await your response with desperate hope. Mr. Granger
"The carriage," Ophelia said, her voice sharp with urgency. "Now, please."
"Your Grace—" James started.
"A child is dying, James. Whatever consequences I face for this, they're nothing compared to what that family is facing right now."
Something in her tone must have convinced him because he nodded and hurried to arrange the carriage. Within minutes, she was climbing into the unmarked vehicle, her reticule heavy with the pin money Alexander had given her; money meant for ribbons and gloves and other duchess frivolities, now repurposed for medicine and hope.
The ride to the village seemed both endless and far too quick. Her mind raced with doubts. What if Alexander discovered her absence before she returned? What if the money wasn't enough? What if she was already too late? But stronger than the doubts was the image of a sick child, burning with fever while her parents watched helplessly, knowing that their poverty was as much a death sentence as any disease.
The Wheeler cottage sat at the edge of the village, small but neat, with a garden that showed signs of careful tending despite the family's troubles. Smoke rose from the chimney, and Ophelia could see faces at the window which were quickly withdrawn when they saw the carriage, even an unmarked one.
She knocked rather than waiting to be admitted and was answered by Mrs. Wheeler, a woman who might have been thirty or fifty, aged by worry and work into indeterminate exhaustion.
"Your Grace!" The woman nearly collapsed in shock, catching herself on the door frame. "We didn't...that is, we never expected...”
"Mr. Granger sent word about Lucy. May I come in?"
"Your Grace, it's not fitting...the house isn't...we're not prepared for..."
"Mrs. Wheeler, your daughter is ill. Nothing else matters right now."
The woman stepped aside, tears already streaming down her face, and Ophelia entered the cottage that was exactly what she'd expected—scrupulously clean despite the poverty, everything mended and re-mended but maintaining dignity in its careful preservation. Mr. Wheeler sat by the fire, holding a small figure wrapped in what looked like every blanket the family owned. He started to rise when he saw her, but she waved him down.
"Please, don't disturb her on my account."
The child, Lucy, was perhaps six years old, though illness made her seem smaller. Her face was flushed with fever, her breathing labored, and her eyes moved restlessly beneath closed lids. Ophelia had seen illness before—in the servants' quarters at home, in the village near Coleridge House—but something about this child, this family, this moment, made her throat tight with emotion.
"Mr. Granger says she needs medicine," Ophelia said, reaching into her reticule. "Medicine you can't afford because of the rent arrears."
"Your Grace," Mr. Wheeler's voice was rough with exhaustion and pride fighting desperation, "we've tried to keep current, but with the bad harvest and then Lucy falling ill..."
"The rent is forgiven," Ophelia said firmly, pulling out the money she'd brought. "All arrears are cleared, and you have six months' grace before any payment is expected again."
The silence that followed was absolute. Mrs. Wheeler sank into a chair as if her legs had given out. Mr. Wheeler stared at Ophelia as if she'd spoken in another language.
"Your Grace," he finally managed, "His Grace made it very clear that the estate couldn't..."
"I am the Duchess of Montclaire," Ophelia said with more authority than she felt. "This estate is as much my responsibility as my husband's, and I say the debt is forgiven. Here... she pressed the money into Mrs. Wheeler's shaking hands, "...getMr. Granger immediately. Tell him to bring whatever medicine Lucy needs and to send the bills to Montclaire House."
"Your Grace, we can't...this is too much—"
"It's not enough, but it's what I can do right now." Ophelia moved closer to where Mr. Wheeler held Lucy, reaching out tentatively. "May I?"
He nodded, seemingly beyond words, and Ophelia placed her hand gently on the child's burning forehead. Lucy's eyes fluttered open—brown eyes, fever-bright but focusing on Ophelia's face with the strange clarity children sometimes have when illness strips away everything but essentials.
